Flower
by Shinnite
Summary: [Oneshot]The musings and contemplations of a man on his lover and the relationship they share...or is it? Sometimes what seems to be the sweetest of moments is nothing more but the opposite. Saying anything else would ruin the story.


It was a clear day, one of the sort you only expected to see in fairytales and cheesy romance novels. Even the birds were singing, adding to the almost cliché, yet still somehow ethereal quality in the air. The sakura trees were even in full bloom, their pastel white and pink petals contrasting with the vibrant colors elsewhere, their gentle nature making the rest of the scenery seem almost obscenely loud.

The only contrast to the otherwise perfect setting was the heat. It was not the wet, sticky type of hot, fortunately, but a rather dry heat that made the slight breeze and occasional stronger gust of wind all the more pleasant. Even better yet, _he_ enjoyed this sort of weather, and hope was strong that he would be particularly pleased today, possibly even talkative as he usually wasn't.

A strong gust of wind whipped through the courtyard, curving around tree trunks and sliding through the slender branches, stealing an occasional petal and flinging it into an invisible dance. He blushed as the wind ruffled his pleated skirt, a slender hand automatically reaching down to smooth it down and keep it from whipping about. He idly contemplated the contrast between the forest-green fabric and the pale, almost-white skin of his hand, manicured nails digging lightly into the clothing. Anything was better than paying attention to his burning ears, the pointed stares at his back, the silent accusations and feelings of disgust in the air. As he stood there, head bowed to the trees and sky and wind, he felt the beginning stirrings of anger, resentment.

What right did they have to judge? On what basis, really, could they compare him to? Sure, he wore woman's clothing – but, so _what_? He knew, despite no words, that his lover was more comfortable when he wore women's clothes, even if only just marginally so. There was a time or two where he had pondered such an oddity, before coming to the conclusion that it was not dating another man that was the problem, but rather old family ties and pressure. Perhaps, by seeing him in women's clothing his lover's transgression against his family was somehow diminished, less of a crime. It was only an illusion, he knew, but if it provided even the slightest bit of comfort it was an illusion that he would continue to maintain.

It certainly helped that he was of a feminine build – though, to this day, he was torn between being proud or embarrassed of this fact - if he really tried he could pass as a decent, flatchested woman.

Putting that aside he felt that his reason for wearing feminine clothing was not only justified, but right. It made his lover feel more comfortable, maybe even happy – and was that not love was about? Changing others and being changed, pleasing your significant other and look after their happiness and wellbeing? If that was the case, then, what made a bolt of fabric any more different than material possessions, even sex?

He absently fingered the two roses in his hand, concentrating on happier memories to pull him out of the funk he had suddenly landed himself in. One snow-white, the other blood-red, they had both been laying innocently in his shoebox this afternoon, their soft petals brushing against each other in a clash of lust and innocence. Few knew that his favorite flower was the rose, and fewer still knew that white and red were the colors he favored. It was a message just for him, a silent communication sent by the one person who knew him so well. It still brought a smile to his lips, that gesture, so much more elegant than the words that his lover spoke so rarely. It was, in a way, one of his finer points.

It was the flowers that brought him out here, in these clothes, amongst the trees and sky and wind. It was their soft petals that stayed his feet, kept him by the gate of his lover's school despite the sun and disdainful looks. It was not the flowers, however, that stole his breath away – no, that was reserved for the annoying buzzing of the school bell _(alarm clock…?)_ and the anticipation for one slender, uniform-clad figure.

And it was only that uniform-clad figure that could bring a blush to his pale cheeks, only the one who might be even more feminine than himself that could bring such a weakness to his knees even as the sharp eyes brought a skip to his heart._ (What…?)_ He took one step forward, slowly, than another meeting his lover halfway across the courtyard. The roses in his hand were forgotten as uncalloused skin touched his cheek, _(Don't panic…)_, eyes fluttering to a half-closed state as slender fingers closed upon his chin, tilting his face upwards. _(This is…)_

It was only reverent whispers to the wind that they spoke, the words irrelevant and forgotten in favor of that spark that drew them close together…and then closer still in a swirl of heat and leashed passion._ (Nonsense, I have to be…)_

"Muraki." _(……)_

"Hisoka." (_………!!)_

It was with a cry that the figure bolted upright in his bed, hands clenching at the covers, nearly tearing them as the remnants of the dream slowly vaporized in the night air. It was slightly trembling hands that reached under the covers, an almost palpable sense of relief released into the air as questing fingers found night clothes instead of skirt and blouse. One of those pale hands was brought up to wipe the slight sheen of cold sweat from his brow as he hunched forward in an uncharacteristic movement, moonlight illuminating his outline.

As he sat there in the darkened room with his feelings, the cold night air, and the moon, Muraki Kazutaka allowed himself an uncharacteristic shudder as two different ideas came to mind. _Never again_ would he allow Oriya to take over his kitchen for the express purpose of making dinner.

And why had _he_ been the one wearing the skirt?

Author's Notes

Didn't turn out as humorous as I thought it would be when I originally started writing it. But, still, crossdressing!Muraki – that's enough to amuse most anybody. XD

But why did I write Hiraki (HisokaMuraki)? Quite simply because, out of all the Yami pairings, that was the one I said I would never write, and so my muse set out to prove me wrong in her evil, sadistic ways.

But, I can't write _serious_ Hiraki. Unless it involved obsession taken too far. And Darkandslightlyevil!Hisoka along with OhmygodwhathaveIcreated!Muraki. Eyeshift Stuffs muse in closet

To all those still bored and reading this, I say 'enjoy the disclaimers and the snippet that, in its own way, inspired this piece.'

"Hisoka"

"Muraki"

"Hisoka"

"Muraki!"

"Hisoka!"

"Muraki!"

"Hisoka!"

_"Muraki!"___

_"Snuggle bunny of love!"_

"....that was a bit too much."

His surroundings wavered a bit, rippling like a disturbed pond. It only took a minute to discover the 'rock' that had ruined his nightmarish daydream - Oriya's laughter. Mustering up his dignity Muraki cracked open one eye, gazing coolly at his shaking companion. The near silence stretched on for a few moments, Muraki not daring to say a word and Oriya unable to.

Finally Oriya's mirth turned more subdued as he answered Muraki's gaze with one of his own, cocking an eyebrow. "I must ask one thing. 'Snuggle bunny of love'?"

Moments later a much abused tape of Fushigi Yugi was chucked at the offending swordsman's head.

Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei does not belong to me, or anything related. As always, it belongs to its everwonderful and slightly genius creator.


End file.
